“Complicated?” Chris snorted. “Horses are fucking complicated. Women ain’t that complicated. Why don’t you try me? Just leave out the sex stuff, or I really will have to break that pretty nose.”
“You wouldn’t understand.” He looked around the bar, at Mancini’s, and realized just how much he envied his friend. “You’ve got this Brady Bunch life with two parents who love you, and a sister you’d give your left nut to protect, and there’s all this love and support and stability. Do you have any idea how lucky you are?” He raked a hand through his hair, hating the vulnerability of his words. “I didn’t have any of that growing up. You know what I had? I had an old man who lived at the bottom of a bottle, and a mother I can’t even remember.”
“Listen, I get it. You were on the shit end of spectrum the day they handed out families.” Chris paused. “But what’s that got to do with my sister?”
“Everything.” Jax pounded his fist on the bar. “Everything. I had a bad night on the job, and all I could think about was Becca. Like, what if it was me who didn’t come home, you know? I saw what it did to my dad, and I never want to put Becca through that. Ever.” He raised the bottle to his lips. “Better to end things now than risk that kind of hurt.”
“For her or for you?” Chris snorted. “New York’s Bravest. What a fuckin’ joke. I was so proud when I heard you joined the FDNY, but, man, that’s some cowardly shit right there. You didn’t break things off for her. You did it for yourself. At least have the courage to be honest about it.”
He slammed his beer down on the counter, ready to defend the FDNY and himself. But this wasn’t about the job, was it? It was about him. It had always been about him. His fears. His cowardice.
“You want what I got?” Chris asked, not waiting for a reply. “Family means you take the good with the bad. It ain’t gonna be sunshine and bunnies every day, but we stick. We take care of each other. That’s what family is.” Chris wiped up the ring his beer had left behind. “Besides, Frankie’s a grown woman. She can take care of herself, and she can sure as shit make her own decisions.”
“I know that,” he bit out. Hell, she’d told him the same thing on no less than a half dozen occasions.
“Do you? Because from where I’m standing it looks like you’re trying to run the show, and it ain’t working out so good. For either of you.”
Shit.
Chris was right. Breaking things off with Becca had been stupid and selfish. He hadn’t done it to spare her feelings, he’d done it to protect his own. He’d been so damn scared of causing someone else the kind of pain he’d carried his whole life that he’d pushed away the only woman he’d ever loved.
Hell, the one time he’d needed her most, the one time he should have been running to her, he’d run from her. He wasn’t so different from his old man after all, always running the wrong goddamn direction. The realization hit him like a backdraft, incinerating the cowardice he’d wrapped around himself like a fire blanket.
He’d fucked up big time. Becca probably wouldn’t speak to him ever again. After all, she’d given him a second chance, and he’d blown it, just like she knew he would.
No. No more cowardice. He would find a way to show Becca the real Jackson Hart. The one who loved her fiercely and would do anything to win back her trust and her heart. If she gave him the chance, he wouldn’t just be the man she needed. He’d be the man she deserved.
…
Becca pulled a stack of prints for Quinn to review, offering her friend what she hoped was an appreciative smile. Quinn wasn’t exactly thrilled about their late night work session, despite the fact that she’d brought dinner and two bottles of wine.
“It’s a good thing I like you. I wouldn’t skip happy hour with Johnny Football for anyone else,” Quinn said, tucking her hair behind her ear.
“You don’t even like him,” she challenged. “Last week you said he was, and I quote, a colossal jackass.”
“True. But he has these muscles I can’t get enough of,” Quinn explained, taking the photos and flipping through them. She nodded appreciatively, pulling two out and setting them to the side. “These are really good.” She paused and looked up thoughtfully. “You’re not going to forget the little people now that you’re a fancy pants photographer, are you?”
“Very funny.”
“Who’s kidding?” Quinn quipped, tucking her legs beneath her on the sleek leather couch. “That piece in The Post was glowing. I’ll be surprised if you don’t sell out the exhibit.”
“I don’t want to get my hopes up,” she admitted. After the blowup with Jax, she was finding it hard to be too optimistic about anything lest she crash and burn again. Frankly, she wouldn’t survive another soul-shattering disappointment. But Quinn was right. The images for the FDNY piece had turned out better than she’d expected. There was a lot of good material to choose from. It was just hard to see the images without thinking of Jax.
Hell, everywhere she went, and every photo she took, reminded her of him in some way. How could she possibly be expected to celebrate her success when her heart was broken beyond repair? Even her photography, which had always provided light during the darkest periods of her life, seemed bereft of anything remotely resembling joy.
She jerked her eyes from the FDNY photos in Quinn’s hands. Seeing them was too damn painful, like pouring salt in a gaping wound. Yep. That was her heart. A giant gaping wound. The kind that would never heal, leaving her permanently damaged beyond repair.
So much for Brooklyn strong.
Quinn pulled another photo. “How many pieces have you sold from the exhibit?”
“Two so far.” The critic’s reviews had been solid, and they’d helped drum up interest in the exhibit, which was amazing. Really, she couldn’t be happier about it. It was just…well, there was one piece she was having trouble letting go. She sipped her wine, knowing that if she asked for Quinn’s advice, she’d get the cold hard truth. “And I’ve got an offer on a third, but I’m not sure if I’m going to take it.”
Quinn’s brow shot up. “What do you mean you don’t know if you’re going to take it? Why not?” she asked. “You’re an artist with a day job—what’s to think about?”
“The buyer wasn’t able to make it to the reception, so they’re requiring a personal meet and greet at the gallery as part of the sale.” It was a bit mysterious, but art collectors tended to be eccentric, so she wasn’t really hung up on the terms, especially given they’d offered the asking price. No, it wasn’t the circumstances that left her questioning the sale. She chewed her lip, knowing her friend was likely to give her a not so gentle reality check. “The photo they’re requesting is…personal.”
“Sweetie, unless it’s a picture of you doing the deed, you should take the offer.” Quinn plucked another photo from the stack. “An opportunity like this doesn’t come along every day. You’re getting your art into more hands. You’re earning money you can use to help get your business off the ground. From where I’m sitting, there’s no down side. How personal can it be?”
“It’s Jax.”
“Oh, sweetie.” Quinn dropped the remaining photos on the couch next to her. “How’re you holding up? Really?”
“You want the truth?” she asked, knowing her friend wouldn’t have it any other way. “I feel like I’m fifteen again, and I. Hate. It. I want to stay in bed and gorge myself on Chunky Monkey ice cream and never see his stupid face again. But I’ll get through it. One day at a time.”
“Look, you know I don’t believe in love, but I do believe in you. You’ve got to shake this off,” Quinn advised. “Screw fireboy. Trust me, this is his loss.”
“Spoken like a true friend.”
“I’m serious.” Quinn refilled both their wineglasses. “You are not some lovesick kid from Brooklyn anymore. You’re an amazing woman and a kick-ass artist, and everyone can see it except for you.” She scrunched her nose. “And maybe Jax. But he doesn’t count because he’s obviously a dipshit.”
Becca laughed, a silly giggle bubbling up from her belly and roaring out of control until she had tears streaming down her face. Quinn wrapped an arm around her shoulders, holding her until the tears subsided.
“I’m not saying this as your friend,” Quinn said, her voice taking on the hard edge of Back-alley O’Malley. “I’m saying it as someone who believes in your talent. Take the offer.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Becca slipped into the gallery just before closing time, wishing she had half of Quinn’s determination. She’d taken her friend’s advice and agreed to sell the photo, but it hadn’t been an easy decision. Despite the way things had ended with Jax, or maybe because of it, she wanted to hold onto…Jax. Selling it felt unnatural, like losing a part of her soul that could never be reclaimed. Unfortunately, Quinn was right. Business was business and she needed to make the sale. That was kind of the point of being an artist.
Squaring her shoulders, she wove her way through the gallery, heading straight for the room where her work was on display. Better to suck it up and get it over with. She just hoped the buyer didn’t have too many questions. The last thing she wanted to do was burst into tears talking about Jax. Then again, she was a bona fide artist now. Eccentric behavior came with the territory, so maybe they’d consider it a bonus.
The lights were dim when she entered the space, but she wasn’t alone. There was a man studying her work. His back was to her. It didn’t matter. She knew that body as intimately as she knew her own. Standing there in his dress uniform with his hat tucked under his arm, he looked every bit the perfect gentlemen.
Jax.
Her heart stuttered at the sight of him. She’d missed him something fierce this last week. It was hard to believe he’d become such an integral part of her life, as necessary as fresh air and tiramisu, in such a short time. But that time had passed.
So what was he doing at the gallery?
It didn’t matter. She couldn’t do this right now. She needed to keep her head about her, to talk art with a prospective client. That would be impossible with Jax in the gallery.
Quiet as a mouse, she backed out of the room. Madeline would have to reschedule the buyer, tell him she had food poisoning or something. Surely the curator would understand. Besides, a lover’s quarrel in the middle of her gallery, even at this late hour, wouldn’t be good for business.
He turned, his eyes finding her immediately, as if he’d know she was there all along. “Becca.”
She froze. “Jax.”
“Please don’t leave.” He took a tentative step forward, partially closing the gap between them. Why did he have to make that uniform look so damn good?
“I can’t do this right now,” she blurted, hating the way her body reacted to the sight of him with hard nipples and damp panties. Stupid hormones. “I’m meeting a prospective buyer.”
“I know.” He spread his hands and then clasped his hat at center mass. “I requested the private showing. I hope you don’t mind.”
Mind? She most certainly did mind. After he’d thrown her out of his apartment and stomped on her heart? What the hell was he playing at?
She drew a calming breath. No need to get herself kicked out of the gallery for acting like a lunatic. They were both adults. And she was perfectly capable of telling him where he could stick his private showing without raising her voice. She stalked across the room, heels clicking on the hardwood floor.
“This is a powerful image,” he said, pointing to the photo of him on the ladder. She opened her mouth to give him a piece of her mind, but he cut her off. “I know we have a lot to talk about, but before we get into that, can you talk to me about this photograph? Please?”
She snapped her mouth shut. All right. She’d play along, if that’s what it took to find out what he was up to. Just as she had a hundred times before, she studied the image. “The lighting isn’t quite right.” She tilted her head, a frown tugging at the corners of her mouth. “And I wish I’d gotten a slightly better angle.”
“Is that your sales pitch?” The corners of his lips twitched. “If so, it could use some work.”
“Fine.” She gave him the side eye, hating that she noticed his stupid dimples. “What do you want to know?”
“I want to know what you see as an artist.” He arched his brow, his eyes searching hers as if the answers might be hidden in their depths. “Why did you choose this photograph for your exhibition?”
It was a good question. It wasn’t technically perfect, so why had she chosen it? “When I look at this photograph, I see so much more than a fireman saving the life of a child. Don’t get me wrong, that image is powerful in its own right.”
“But that’s not why you chose it,” he said, finishing her thought. His blue eyes were clear and bright, like summer skies, unlike the last time she’d seen him.
“Your eyes—” She hesitated. “I mean, the subject’s eyes convey strength, courage, resilience. The very best of the human spirit.” She ran her fingers over the frame, reminding herself to keep it professional. “When I look at this image, I feel hope. For humanity and for my city.”
He nodded, placing his hand over hers. A shiver raced down her spine.
Not this time.
She jerked her hand away, refusing to be sucked in by him again. He’d had his chance. Two, technically. She didn’t have a third in her.
“I’m no expert, but I think maybe you missed something.” He narrowed his eyes. And was it her imagination or did his shoulders sag just a bit? “You know what I see when I look at this photograph? Fear and doubt. The subject is afraid. Afraid he won’t be good enough, brave enough, strong enough.”
“I didn’t miss anything,” she said, her breath hitching in her throat. “Art is subjective. We each see what we want to see, what speaks to us. The reason this piece is so powerful, the reason people are drawn to it, is because it affects each of us differently. But I have to believe the good outweighs the bad. Every day we make choices that shape who we are as people, and on this day”—she tapped the glass—“courage reigned supreme.”
“You always see the best in people, even when they don’t see it in themselves.” He toyed with his hat, but his eyes remained locked on hers. “Even when they don’t deserve it.”
“Jax—”
“Please, just hear me out,” he said, his words thick with emotion. “I want to apologize to you. For ruining your reception and for every terrible thing I said to you that night. I know how important that day was to you, and dammit, I wanted to be there to share it. I was so proud of you. I still am.” He shifted his weight, looking anything but comfortable.
She could relate. Her heart was beating double time. He looked so sincere, as if their breakup had been as painful for him as it had been for her. But that wasn’t possible, was it? After all, this was what he’d wanted. He’d told her to leave, knowing she wouldn’t come back.
“Really, Jax?” She crossed her arms over her chest. It wasn’t much, but it was the only protection she had left. “Because that’s not how it felt when you stood me up—again. Or when you told me to leave your apartment.”
His shoulders fell. “I know. I—”
“No,” she said, cutting him off with a jerk of the hand. “You don’t know, Jax. You really don’t. So why’d you do it? I just…I don’t understand. Things were going so well before…”
“Before I fucked it all up?” he finished.
She sighed, rubbing her temples as her emotions spiraled out of control. “Yeah, pretty much.”
“The company caught a tough call, and I was in a bad place. We…I…lost a life. I was frustrated and angry, but that’s no excuse for what I did or said. I acted like a coward, projecting my fears onto you. I told myself I was protecting you, when in reality I was protecting myself. I listened to those voicemails you left, to the fear in your voice, and I couldn’t bear the idea of hurting you…if someday I didn’t come home.” He paused, drawing a deep breath. “My father, he was never
the same after my mother died. His grief destroyed him and, in turn, our family. I couldn’t bear the idea of putting you through that, of ruining the amazing person you are, the bright future that lies ahead. I never wanted to hurt you, Becca.”
“Let me get this straight,” she asked quietly, pulse thundering in her ears. “You thought it was better to hurt me now than risk that kind of future devastation?”
He nodded, the sadness in his eyes overwhelming. “I was an idiot.”
“Damn right you were an idiot. You were afraid of hurting me? That’s what this was all about?” she asked, throwing her hands up. “You put us both through hell because you were afraid of what might happen? Don’t you think I get scared, too, sometimes?”
Despite the angry rhetoric, her armor was slipping. She could feel the fortress she’d built around her heart falling. In his own misguided way, he’d been trying to do the right thing. And even if she didn’t agree with his logic, she could understand why he’d chosen wrong. He’d never risked his heart, and he’d never had anyone willing to risk theirs for him. Hell, he’d told her himself that he didn’t know what love was before…her.
He reached out and stroked her cheek, setting fire to her skin. “This thing between us…fuck. Becca, I love you. Always have, always will. And it scares the shit out of me.”
Fear was a powerful emotion. She knew firsthand what it was like to live with it day in and day out, afraid to take a chance. After all, hadn’t she let fear control her life for the last ten years? It wasn’t until Jax had come along that she’d let go and—
Wait. Did he just say he still loves me?
…
Jax watched as Becca processed his words. He could almost see the wheels in her head turning as she decided how to respond to his bumbling apology. It hadn’t gone exactly as he’d planned, but that didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered now was her answer. Would she tell him to pound sand? Or would she give him another chance?
Shit.
Seducing the Fireman (Risky Business) Page 17
